


Compliance

by orphan_account



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, One Shot, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21893473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Macy has boldness enough for them both.post 2x08 and the-kiss-that-shall-not-be-named *burns sage*
Relationships: Harry Greenwood/Macy Vaughn
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	Compliance

Macy shuffled back from her night shift in the command centre. It was 8am. Mel had pressed a decaf almond milk latte into her hands when she came to relieve her. She asked if she had made any gains in her effort to make the board portable. Macy shook her head. She spent the night trying to determine the mechanics of the board to no avail. Privately, she suspected the task was beyond the realms of physics, though this didn't stop her from trying. 

At least there had been no alarms, which meant they were on their longest streak without an incident. Ten days to be precise. 

In the kitchen, Harry sat stooped over a cup of Earl Grey, his hair damp, in front of him a pile of pages transcribed from the Book of Elders. He looked up at her, muffled something nondescript, and returned to his cipher. She replied by jerking her head back, the way her father use to greet random black men in the streets, and decided to forgo breakfast. 

Lately, their conversations were small masterpieces of passive-aggressiveness. At first, she tried to rise above the petty point scoring, but was quick to cede the moral high ground. Never one to be out done, she returned each of his jabs with her own acerbic ripostes.

They were at an impasse and she didn't know what to do. 

… 

In her head, she rearranged her words to approach the truth; _you can't get into bed with the devil, unless you want to get burned_ , transformed into, _let me be the devil that burns you._

But she couldn't say this to him. He wouldn't understand. Much of what she said, the good and the bad, he use as weapons of self-flagellation. On the topic of his darklighter, especially, he was beyond reason. 

She would rather continue squabbling like two hostile nations then provide ammunition for his pain. 

...

She woke up from a fever dream, blinded by the high noon sun. As her vision cleared she saw the contents of her room floating in the air. Her clothes fluttered about like birds in flight, darting between the suspended chair and desk. It was something out of a Dali painting. 

The black amber had given her back her telekinesis; a month after she touched it and lost all hope. She had been untethered without her ability to feel the pulse connecting her to the universe, 

She delighted as she smashed the mirror with her high heels and tessellated the pieces into intricate mosaics. 

"The world is your weapon," her mother said. It was also her medicine. She believed Marisol was precise in calling it so. For Macy destruction and mending were counterpoised, they flowed from the same source. 

As she glued her broken mirror back together and carefully resettled her room, she felt close to a revelation. 

...

She did not care for his darklighter the way he thought she did, but he was not without his merits. He taught her many unexpected things: sometimes more could be said with the body than with all the poetry in the world. 

He showed her this in the apartment in Manhattan, during her brief and confusing captivity. She did not know what he had been denied, all those years, until she held him. 

In her arms he, who had been full of bravado, became small and yielding. He sighed into the curve of her neck and let her sway him. It was only then she grasped the full depths of his desperation. That one sigh, the press of his parted mouth against her shoulder, gave meaning to his hunger. 

…

If she could not find the right words for Harry, she would at least find the right gesture. 

...

She kept her powers to herself. Just for a few hours she wanted them to belong only to her. 

A few hours set with the sun and turned into night. She stood on the Safe Space roof. The moon was sallow and waning; in the glow of the cityscape the stars appeared anaemic. Mount Rainier loomed in the distance like a hobbled titan. 

The dream that awoke her powers came back to her. Both déjà vu and metaphor. 

Harry lay himself down at her feet and let her be the wide, open sky above him. She took pleasure in what he offered. With him she didn't feel wicked for her desires, the ones that moved in her like a wild beast kicked from slumber. 

Into her hair he whispered, "I surrender." 

She woke up. 

Her cheeks throbbed in the evening breeze. She felt as if she had fallen off the roof, and survived. 

...

Macy was given to thinking and overthinking, and, very rarely, to not thinking at all. 

... 

She found him in the attic, a mortar and pestle at hand, no doubt cooking up a potion gleaned from the Book of Elders. 

When he saw her, he straightened, looking both panicked and confused. 

"Macy? What's wrong?" 

It had been a long month of antagonism, but she never once doubted he had her back. The concern in his voice strengthened her resolve. She settled into the role of a woman clear in her intentions, unafraid of what she wanted. Ingénue turned femme fatale. 

"Sit down," she said, kicking a chair toward him. 

If he said no, asked why, she'd have lost her nerve, turned around, and hid under her bed. This time she would be the one to evoke their incantation, _lets just pretend it never happened._

He had to play for this to work. 

And he did. 

The molten look in his eyes made her belly clench. He sat down, his palms up-turned in supplication. Waiting. 

Too soon it was her move again. 

Her pulse drummed in her ears. She walked over, placed her hands on his shoulders and sat astride him, slowly, pressing her chest flush against his. 

The breath he was holding came out in a long, ragged sigh. Waves of heat washed over her as she felt every part of him come alive. Vaguely, she thought she might float away. 

Her movements were beyond her. Why she did what she did she could not say, only that she felt compelled, drawn to action by some external force. A type of magnetism. 

She weaved her hands through his hair, gentle at first, his eyes fluttering shut. Then she gathered the hair at the scruff of his neck into a fist and jerked his head back. 

How precious he was to her, this whitelighter, her dearest friend. So badly handled in love; his perversities turned against him. What luck that his predilection for submission perfectly fit with her yearning for the opposite. Her touch would be kinder and she would never leave him alone with his pain. 

She placed her lips against his. It was not a kiss, just a teasing caress. A gesture. 

Something animal stirred in him and he made a feral noise. His arms came around her like a vice, and she kissed him for true. Rough and needing, his lips velvety and firm. He abandoned himself to her, became undone, overexcited. 

Her blood moved like honey. Every part of her ached to be touched. 

The room hummed. The mortar and pestle, his papers, her mother’s herbs and potions, the chair they were in, all of it ascended into the air. A year ago he had her tied up with her sisters in this place and she required every ounce of her concentration to move the globe. Now, unthinking, she made this happen. 

Was it Jung who said flying in dreams was a sign of sex hunger? Longing? What of it in the waking state?

Could this be called flight? 

He smiled into her open mouth. 

"When?" he said, placing kisses against her jaw, down her neck. 

"This afternoon," she bit gently at his ear, "I had a dream and my powers came back." 

"What dream?" he asked distracted. 

She was dizzy. The chair jerked and she worried she might loose control. 

"You. This." 

A bottle of rose otto fractured open, as did a jar of dried gooseberries. Shards of glass sent small rainbows dancing across the room. She was barely able to stop a trunk of tinctures hurtling out the window. 

He stopped and looked at her. 

She had done too much, too soon. She was reckless and dangerous. He was going to leave. 

"Macy, set us down." 

When she did, he smiled, leaning to press their foreheads together. 

And then he orbed them away.

.

.

. 

In the morning, Maggie asked them over breakfast, "Hey, you guys know what happened to the attic? It's a total mess." 

**Author's Note:**

> Look at what liberties I have taken with Macy’s powers! 
> 
> Also, sorry for the total 'fade to black' but alas smut is not my forté.
> 
> Thanks for reading! 


End file.
